


Affection

by vermicious_knid



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Season 4 AU, but didn't know how to put it down until now, had this story in my head for months, jerome valeska - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:40:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26018158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vermicious_knid/pseuds/vermicious_knid
Summary: It was the one thing he had sworn never to feel for anyone again - but then she came along.
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/ OC, Oswald Cobblepot/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

After the incident at the iceberg lounge opening (or maybe because of it) the nightclub flourished. The clientele was a mixed variety – but all of them powerful and wealthy, no matter how they had become so. It was a place where criminals and corrupt politicians struck up deals over a cold drink, or held private meetings in one of the many VIP rooms upstairs.

It was one of those places where secrets are in plain sight – but nobody will question it.

* * *

"I'd say you're taking awful liberties, Cobblepot."

"Oh? And how so?"

"You can't really expect me to give up the docks just like that – for so little-"

They were having a heated discussion at the bar. Cobblepot himself and the man that had (and was currently losing grip over) the docks as his area of control –smuggled goods, storage facilities, factories that made things other than metal cans. Cobblepot was relaxed, smug in that sharp way that was close to giving way to anger – and then madness. The man was sweating, faltering like a dog backed into a corner.

Nobody at the club was paying their conversation any mind. A live band was playing energetic jazz music, the club was full to the brim with partygoers – the bartender signaled for the kitchen to bring out more ice. It was just another busy friday evening, like so many others.

Oswald downed his whiskey and set the glass down sharply on the counter.

"I expect you to be grateful. I could sell you out to the police instead, if that's what you prefer?"

The man turned red at those words – fear and immediate anger coloring his face. The air in the club was hot that night, and the temperature matched his face. The summer heat had even found it's way into the coldest place in gotham.

Despite all the noise around them, he still heard what came next. The cocking of a gun, slightly muffled by fabric and layers upon layers of fat.

Oswald's clear blue eyes gleamed with excitement at that.

It was then that he heard something else – something clumsy and much louder. He peered around the angry, fat criminal currently pointing a gun at him through his coat pocket. Bizarrely, he was more concerned at the moment about the staff acting clumsy around his guests. That wouldn't do at all.

But no, it had not been a member of the staff.

There were a pair of red, slightly dirty and worn cocktail shoes now resting on the bar counter. Next to them was the woman who had so unceremoniously and rudely placed them there. He determined at once that she must have snuck in somehow – because she didn't belong. Her hair was like a doll's – white-blond, curled and unkempt. Her pale skin (white as snow) glowed in a fey way under the dim lights of the club, her features soft and too innocent. She rested her elbows on the counter and watched with rapt attention at how the bartender was mixing a margarita.

Her eye makeup was messy – as if she had wiped at her eyes and forgotten she was wearing any. She was wearing a knee-length red dress that looked like she had just grabbed it from a thrift shop without looking at the size tag. It fit her like a large, unshapely bag.

In the midst of all this, Oswald had stopped paying attention to the drug-dealer, who was growing increasingly hot-tempered and desperate.

"-I said, are you listening to me ?! " he repeated and Oswald blinked, realizing that he had been staring. He sized up the man and smiled – in a condescending, borderline cruel fashion as he sidestepped him –"Hm? Oh, excuse me for a moment." he said, signaling to one of his many men to deal with him discreetly in another room as he walked up to the strange woman.

He had fully intended to throw her out – to berate her for even trying such a trick, thinking that she could just waltz in here, of all places.

"This is not a place for common people, miss."

"Good thing I'm such a rare breed then." she answered without pausing to think. She was sitting on a bar stool and spinning it slowly around, eyeing him sleepily each time it turned in his direction. She kept pedaling it with her bare feet, since her shoes still rested on the countertop. Oswald watched her for a moment in silent frustration. She was probably drunk.

Or not – because suddenly she shooted off the chair with energy that seemed to come out of nowhere. She landed on the floor and looked at him with deep blue, wide awake eyes. He noticed that there was a small black tattoo on her right arm in the shape of a little heart.

"Hey - have you seen the roof of this place? It's great." she told him cheerfully.

He opened his mouth – closed it and then opened it again. Confusion and indignation. Frustration and a headache. She just stood there, happily waiting for his answer.

"Yes, many times since I own the building – now how come you have been there, which is decidedly off-limits?" he asked, his threatening voice creeping in, his hand on the bar counter slowly closing into a fist.

She covered her mouth quickly and laughed – carefree and a little too happy – no idea of the danger she was currently in.

"I can't say really – I'm not even supposed to say I've been there at all. It's a secret!"

"Careful miss, you are treading a hair-fine line. I never liked secrets."

"Fine, I suppose I can tell you – if it's only you and not the whole room. " she says, leaning in to whisper in his ear.

And then she tells him, and he finally realizes why she looks so familiar. It was all over the news about a year ago. Jerome Valeska, spreading terror over the city of gotham. Those flashes of a dancing young woman at his side, peeking at the lens of the camera like its an old friend.

But Jerome is in arkham now – locked away for good, or so they say.

He looks around and realizes that some of the guests are staring at her – all remembering the same thing. Jerome had been another kind of criminal – spreading uncontrolled chaos wherever he went.

The iceberg lounge is not the place for that sort of thing.

Oswald smiles tight-lipped at her, his patience running out.

"Well, thank you for stopping by. Don't come back again."


	2. Chapter 2

The next couple of weeks were busy and Oswald forgot about the encounter altogether. He really didn't think she would make another appearance – had completely dismissed her from his mind in fact.

But then the night of the auction came.

* * *

The usual crowd showed up, the best and the worst of the rich and the wealthy. He mingled appropriately and smarmed and was all smiles for them. He had, after all, the mayor in his pocket and there was no need to hide the fact that most of the objects for sale that night had been stolen in the first place. But there was always more power to gain, all the more to lose in an instant if he slacked off – wasn't careful.

Zsasz had already disposed of a long list of people that hadn't gotten in line – the grave was vast for people that disagreed with him these days.

He was less polite, less polished with her that night when he saw her in the crowd. He hated bumps – no matter how small or insignificant, in his plans. She was dressed in a wrinkly turquoise satin dress, otherwise just the same in appearance as last time. Looking more like a ghost than an actual human being with that unnaturally pale skin.

She was clapping along with the others, applauding the elegant knife tricks performed by hired performers for the evening. He walked up to her and, clapping too, leaned in to speak quietly into her ear.

"I thought I made it very clear last time that I did not want to see you here again."

She moved her head slightly in his direction, but not looking directly at him.

"Emma."

He turned his head so he was looking at her fully then, almost spitting out his words.

"What?"

"You can call me by my name, you know."

It was just a strike of bad luck that an important member of the Maroni family would stroll up to them just then, looking carefree and stuffed with fifty years of italian cooking. He was smoking a cigar and chuckling at the tail-end of some conversation just held.

"Ah Oswald, you must introduce me to this charming friend of yours." he said, gesturing to the woman beside him. Oswald grinded his teeth but forced a smile to cross his features.

"Ah, Alberto. Such a pleasure to see you here this evening! This is Emma-" he began, but didn't have time to continue before Emma stepped in and let Alberto hold her hand in greeting. She smiled pleasantly, with ease.

"-his cousin. I just flew in from Mexico. "

Oswald stared at her, at a loss for words. Alberto's eyebrows flew up and he laughed again, his eyes trailing over her body shamelessly as he held her hand.

"Oh really? Charming country that is too..."

Oswald grabbed Emma's arm and began quickly steering her away, smiling apologetically to Alberto.

"Hold on just a second Al, I need to go have a word with my cousin about safe travels and quick exits."

But before he could throw her out unceremoniously and with much gusto, someone from the staff arrived at his side.

"Sir – sorry to interrupt but the auction is scheduled to start in three minutes."

Oswald closed his eyes tightly for a moment and pinched the bridge of his nose – still holding onto Emma's arm like she was an errant dog on a leach. He grunted/growled and opened his eyes again – depositing Emma to the hapless servant like a very unwanted package.

"Right, right. Take this away from here – far far away. " he said, waving his hand, giving her one last look before leaving to do his job for the evening as host.

She had looked hurt.

* * *

When the auction was over and most of the guests had gone home for the evening with their prizes, he went to the now deserted bar, intent to make himself a drink before going upstairs to turn in for the night. Was spooked enough to jump and tremble on his bad leg when she suddenly spoke up his name in the silence.

"Oswald."

He braced himself against the bar counter and tried to regain his composure, as Emma looked on with a detached curiosity. She watched his hand on the counter – it was not as delicate as the rest of him – his hands rough and scarred, something red and blackish underneath the fingernails.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to-"

Suddenly, quick as a snake, he pulled a knife out from underneath the counter and pointed it at her menacingly, his arm shaking. She fell quiet and stepped back a little, sighing before sitting down on right on the floor. She rested her head in one ivory white hand and looked up at him.

"Why can't I come here? Am I really that different?"

He could kill her – he really could. But he was also tired, and what she was saying was sort of making sense. There was also something else – something in her countenance that gave him pause. He lowered the knife grudgingly and rolled his eyes. Grabbed a nearby lemon and chopped it in half, and started to mix two drinks.


	3. Chapter 3

He didn't keep track of her – of course he didn't.

She was, in the grand scheme of things, largely unimportant.

But like a scab you can't help but pick at, she had a way of getting his attention whether he liked it or not.

Her loud laugh cutting through the din of a crowd, pale skin glowing underneath the lights, loose limbs giving way to dramatic gestures. She was in some ways a clear echo of her boyfriend – the same untamed madness bubbling underneath the surface, but it was not a madness borne out of cruelty.

Oddly, she never mentioned his name once.

* * *

She had behaved so well, it was only a matter of time before the other shoe dropped.

He was interrupted in his office one night by Zsasz walking in unannounced, letting him know that there was "a situation" downstairs. A situation Victor didn't know how to deal with – which was rare.

When he went to see, there was a crowd already gathered around what appeared to be two people fighting. When he got close enough, people parting as he arrived, he realized that it was Emma – and on the floor with blood gushing from his mouth, was Tommy bones. One of his best men he had working for him, had been essential in fact to the rise of his empire. Some of the blood had decorated her silvery-grey dress, and if he hadn't been so angry he would have found it beautiful. Her expression before seeing him was half-wild, the expression in her eyes pure hatred. Her red lipstick was slightly smeared, her cheek sporting a red handprint. She was breathing through her mouth, a primitive, desperate cry coming out of her over and over until she saw him standing there.

A hushed silence reigned around them for a long beat, as Oswald locked eyes with her – cold fury in his gaze. Victor Zsasz turned around and jovially addressed the crowd, breaking the silent spell.

"Alright people, nothing to see here! Move back now, come on."

* * *

In his office, he paced back and forth – dragging his bad leg as Emma sat in a chair, still bloody and wild looking. But she was quiet now, worried. But her eyes were colored charcoal, tainted with some dark sadness he neither noticed or cared about.

"Is this how you repay my hospitality? By beating up my men?" he asked and stopped pacing. She turned her head away and muttered.

"You weren't there. You didn't hear what he said."

"I don't care. I told you that this is not a place for common, bloody brawls, didn't I?" he said, before collapsing in his chair behind the desk, rubbing at his temple. There was a gun in the top drawer of his desk – two more in a hatch in the floor, and many more tucked away in the room. But he didn't want to dirty his hands with her.

He had already decided – already told Victor what he wanted, and so it would be done. There was nobody around that would threaten his position if she disappeared – he was just nipping it in the bud for what a problem she would become later, when Jerome inevitably escaped Arkham, which all criminals managed to do at some point.

* * *

That night he ordered Victor to get rid of her quietly, efficiently. That usually meant getting shot by the docks, the common funeral grounds for many criminals. Her body would get swallowed up by the river, to be seen no more.

Zsasz agreed with his usual glee at killing, even if it had to be done in a less theatrical fashion than he preferred.

He grabbed the woman by her arm (gently) and walked her away, no doubt spewing some good excuse or lie to get her wherever he wanted to take her.

Why she looked back at him as they were walking away, he didn't know. She looked at him with uncertainty, confusion – a strange, anxious look. But she wasn't clever enough to realize what her fate was, so she went without a fuss.

* * *

He was in the bath when she came back.

She broke into his mansion, leaving wet footprints on the hardwood floors and marble. She broke in quietly and stepped into his bathroom, and there he was – letting out an embarrassingly loud yelp of surprise at the sight of her.

She was soaked from head to toe – her usual red dress clinging to her, turned a deep scarlet black color so that it was impossible to tell if she was bleeding or not. Her shoes were missing and there was a red trail of blood oozing down from the top of her head, staining her pale blonde hair a pinkish hue. She stood there and watched him with wide, blue eyes for so long – as if she was in a trance. Then she – without noticing his sputters of indignation and protest, climbed into the bath with him, water splashing over the sides of the tub. She didn't seem to realize that he was naked, didn't notice much of anything around her in fact.

He was so shocked by her sudden appearance, he could only watch as she lowered herself into the bath, leaning her head back and staring off into space. The blood from her head began trickling down to the white enamel tile, into the bathwater. Her eyes closed half-way, and she went very still.

"Mmm, warm." was all she managed to say before passing out.

* * *

He called Zsasz, of course, asking how things had proceeded earlier for things to turn out this way.

Clutching his bathrobe tightly to himself and phone in one hand, occasionally peering over his shoulder at the unconscious woman in his bathtub, as if he either couldn't quite believe she was there or expected her to spring out of the tub and try to kill him when he wasn't watching.

Oswald had never heard Zsasz stutter before.

What he managed to gather was that they had gotten to the docks, and when it became apparent to Emma what was about to happen, before he had pulled a gun on her, she had latched onto his neck and bit him hard – hard enough to rip away a chunk of flesh. Doing so without a single trace of hesitation. They had struggled and fought and he had shot her – he was sure. He had then heard a splash in the water, seeing her sink into the darkness.

Oswald turned around and looked at her again – trying to determine if she had been hit. But there was too much red on her body – the dress concealed it.

It was just him in the large mansion, alone. Housekeeping and various lackeys came and went during the day, but at night he liked it that way – just him, and the ghosts.

But at a time like this it was a nuisance.

He could have called someone else to do it for him, but he didn't like the idea of waiting around while this woman bled out in his bathtub. His intentions had changed in a short amount of time, even though he didn't consciously consider this.

Two hours ago he would have been happy to know that she was dead.

Now he was fishing her out of the bathtub, being careful not to bump her head into the tiles.


	4. Chapter 4

He checks her pulse first – just so he knows whether he'll need to bother himself with it at all.

But she is – alive that is.

It is a process to carry someone when you have a bad leg, her body slippery with water still. He manages to get her to the bedroom closest to the bathroom – not his own (thankfully). It used to belong to his sham sister, and has been redecorated since in much more tasteful tones.

He gets towels – several of them. Dries her off, soaks up the blood.

And then his hands hesitate, hovering over her dress. They shake a little and he scoffs at himself – he gets a scissor and cuts it open, because he needs to see if she had been hit after all, not just her head.

But he hesitates twice about it, badly too, before he takes it off. Because his morals are a twisted thing, and this is one of the things that is against his nature.

Sure enough, she had a gash on her hip – the bullet had grazed her but not went through more than skin, no intestine or bone. It was amazing that someone with such marble pale skin had blood, rich and thick in color as anybody else. But it was a disturbing sight all the same, in many ways.

Since her wounds had been so superficial, they only needed a few stitches each. Oswald may not have been the best at stitches, but he had been taught how – they all had, at some point back when Fish Mooney was still alive. Gang fights often got out of hand, and it not always a good idea to go to a hospital.

When he is done with it, having managed to get her into the bed, he is so tired he almost falls asleep sitting there on the edge of it looking at her.

* * *

By next morning, he has informed Magda of his new guest.

He explains it in a way that sounds acceptable to her ears - "A lady friend who is recovering from surgery is staying with us for a couple of days." he says as she serves him breakfast, and she stops and gapes at him, quickly followed by saying something foreboding in italian and he rolls his eyes and clenches his jaw.

"It's not like that, so you don't have to go grab the crucifix."

But Magda is not listening, and keeps muttering under her breath as she returns to the kitchen.

* * *

Despite telling Magda to do it, he has to stop by and check for himself.

He stops right outside the bedroom and listens – but hears nothing. He pushes the door open and walks inside – Emma is still in bed, still asleep. White-blonde hair fanned out over the pillow, surrounding her head like a halo. She lies completely still – too still, in fact.

He steps closer still – maybe she is dead after all?

But it is then that she chooses to open her eyes suddenly, moving her heartshaped lips.

"Hi." she says cheerfully, and Oswald is stunned enough that he does an awkward (and extremely humiliating) dance on the spot, scrambling backward as she sits up in bed slightly, grinning from ear to ear as she watches him. She is wearing a very old-fashioned high-necked nightgown. It was the only thing he had been able to find for her to wear – it had been lying in the linen closet, among mothballs and dried flowers left from an era ago when women still had hope chests and attended season balls.

A little laugh escapes her mouth – not mocking or cruel, but a strange laugh nonetheless. Oswald glares daggers at her, one hand clutching one corner of the four-poster bed. If he didn't have his walking stick at times like this, he would have fallen to the floor in a heap of limbs.

"Don't! Don't ever do that again." he grits out. Emma stops laughing suddenly and winces twice, drags one hand over the covers, raking her nails on it. She remembers now, feels the pain from the other night.

"You wanted me to be dead." she says after a moment, as if she finally figured it out. Oswald wanders over to the breakfast tray that Magda carried up for her, and prepares her a cup of tea - to avoid looking at her pained expression.

"Yes." he answers easily, not the least bit of regret or shame in his voice. He hands her the cup and she frowns down at it, blinks.

"But I'm not dead – why?"

It's the only question he hasn't asked himself yet. Everything from last night til now had just been about keeping her alive – not the reason as to why. He doesn't like to dwell on it. He shouldn't dwell on it. He thumps the stick into the floor twice, to make himself remember that.

He shrugs at her and answers flippantly, like the answer is not important.

"I don't know. I changed my mind."


	5. Chapter 5

The next couple of days passed by in a sort of tentative, extremely brittle truce at the manor.

At work however business kept booming, as they say. It was not for nothing either – Oswald had worked hard (by tooth and nail) to get to where he was now. The devil knew he had.

It was only so typical – the city finally appreciating his services when they were on their hands and knees. It hadn't worked when he was mayor – pandered to their whims, pretended to be somebody else. But he knew – people were predictable, in the end.

He had a shorthand for how to get to Gordon. Had perfected it over the years now he had known the man. So even though he had a firm hand on what he considered to be "his" part of gotham and liked to keep it that way, occasionally he threw his old friend a bone or two – let him bust a drug factory, arrest the criminals that didn't matter in the big scheme of things.

Not because he had any obligation to do so – but because he had the power to choose.

And even if Gordon put up a good fight (honorable, sad as it was) their shared history had gathered up a fair amount of blackmail material against him, should he ever get too close to his own goals.

Yes, Oswald was often prepared for threats that could come from any direction. He never did like surprises.

* * *

He was going over his daily agenda with mr. Penn (accountant and secretary in one) at the end of a particularly long day in his office, the blinds drawn and his countenance blood-thirsty. Mr. Penn stood in the corner, trying not to look out of place in the gothic, foreboding room.

"Let's see – item five, checking the weapons inventory at the docks."

"Done. " Oswald answered curtly, urging Penn to go on as she stared into the darkness in front of him, fingers steepled together. Penn made a nervous gesture and continued.

"Item six – paying a courtesy call at Barbara Keene's club, making plans to burn it to the ground."

"I suppose I must postpone the latter for now. Go on, next item please."

"Have a talk with the person responsible for the recording devices planted at the club." Penn said as Oswald got up from his chair, walking towards the door, cane in hand. He was eager to go home that day, having been in a persistent sulk all day.

But he did have a perverse joyful memory of that last item, making him smirk suddenly to himself.

"Mr. Penn, have the kitchen staff burn whatever is left of him in the basement furnace, will you?" he said over his shoulder.

"Uh, yes sir."

"Now, I think that was all for today, so if you'll excuse me-" he said as he reached the door, but was stopped by Penn's impossibly polite and timid voice.

"Actually, sir – uh-"

Oswald spun around, cleary annoyed and not in a good frame of mind to be interrupted or addressed.

"What? Spit it out."

"There is one item left on your agenda."

"Which is?"

"Have dinner with one Governer Carter Winston."

* * *

_Fuck._

Oswald didn't swear like that – at least not out loud, or so loud that anyone could hear him. He did swear to himself in the car on the way home, because he had indeed, forgotten about the dinner plans. Plans didn't usually slip his mind like this, and it infuriated him.

The governor had made an interesting statement earlier that week on television. Most politicians in gotham were so corrupt or so frightened into silence, they were rarely a threat to Oswald these days. But not Wilson, it would seem.

"I'm going to clean up Gotham once and for all, and to do that I'm going to start with the heart of the problem – namely the cesspool that is the iceberg lounge and the crime spree that Oswald Cobblepot has let loose on our beloved city."

 _An interesting statement indeed_.

But it was not only the fact that he had forgotten that had him in a fuss – it was the fact that he still had a very peculiar "house guest" to attend to in the midst of it all.

The dinner wouldn't have been an issue if she was still bedridden, but for the last two days she had roamed about the mansion and he had rarely even seen her when he was home in the evenings.

But the last thing he wanted was for her to interrupt what essentially was a business meeting – he liked to uphold a certain decorum for these things, and Emma well…

Decorum was not a word that he thought she was very familiar with.

* * *

He didn't know whether it was luck or something more sinister at play when he couldn't seem to find her when he got home at all. It was as if she had disappeared out of thin air, like a ghost he had only ever encountered in his dreams.

One of his butlers appeared in the doorway to his room, knocking on the side of the door politely with his knuckles. He had just finished getting dressed for dinner, exchanging his day clothes for a fresh dinner jacket and crisp, dark suit.

"Mr Cobblepot? Dinner is served in the great hall, the governer is waiting in the lobby."

As usual, no matter what gauntlets had been thrown, Oswald appeared to greet his guest with an almost fond smile on his face. Wilson had been standing by the looming fireplace, looking up at the portrait of his mother and father hanging directly above it.

It was the only painted portrait of them in existence – he had dug it out of the attic, never knowing that it had existed at all.

"Carter, it's been too long." he said in greeting, shaking the man's hand heartily. Wilson smiled back, but it was not as enthusiastic.

"Likewise Oz, likewise. You have a nice home here, haven't you?" he asked, nodding at their surroundings. Oswald shrugged in that exaggerated way he had sometimes, bordering on the ironic but sincere at its core.

"It suits me."

"I just remember you as this scrawny little kid – keeping all those strange pets that your mother didn't know about." Wilson said as they walked into the dining room, the table laid out for them as they walked in. Oswald laughed enthusiastically and threw out his arms to his sides, grinning.

"And look at me now!"

Wilson did look – and he did not smile this time.

"Yes, well – a lot has changed since then."

"For the better, of course."

"Well, that is one of the reasons I accepted your invitation – to talk about that better part..."

Mr. Wilson lost the rest of his sentence as a third person walked into the room.

Emma walked in silently, smiling shyly at the governer who was currently staring at her. She looked the same as she always did – except her hair looked cleaner, like it had actually been combed. She was wearing a muted dark pink dress of crushed satin that looked like it had rested with dust for the better part of the 19th century. Despite its old age and the dust that covered it, it oddly looked well on her slim frame as it trailed to the floor.

Oswald stared too – his brain reaching a frightening sort of frozen state for a moment as she calmy walked around the table and sat down opposite to the governer with an audacity that normally would have him livid.

"I'm starved – what are we having tonight?" she asked him, looking up and smiling.

"Oz, you cad! You didn't tell me you had another bird in the nest."

"She's not my – she is – she's just a- "

As if sensing that she had done something wrong, Emma got up from her seat quickly, the fun and games gone from her face.

"I'll go. I'm sorry." she said quickly, quietly and turned to leave. But Oswald put his hand around wrist and held on. She blinked and looked back at him – a strange mixture of fear and apprehension on her face. A tension between them that was new – hadn't been there before.

Oswald withdrew his hand and shrugged awkwardly, laughed his husky laugh that only came out when he was nervous.

"No. Stay – it's just dinner, that's all." he said, and why was he trying to convince her?

Emma watched him for a moment – watching him like she expected that he might hit her.

Meanwhile, the governor had his own comment to make.

"Did you have a fight or something? I can leave you two kids alone for a second if you need to make up."

Oswald rolled his eyes over the moon and back, and that made Emma laugh as she resumed her seat at the table, elbows up, the fear gone from her expression entirely.


	6. Chapter 6

During the course of the dinner Oswald understood that yes, Mr. Winston was in fact as stupid as he had portrayed himself on television.

"I mean it Oswald, your type of business is sending this city down the toilet." Winston said, the last bite of dinner dissolved.

The candles on the table were burning bright, but the room seemed darker all the same anyway. It was that kind of room that absorbed all dark things. Oswald played a finger around the rim of his wine glass and smiled.

"Really? How is that?"

It was a simple question but laced with sharp intent. But Carter continued, unaware of not caring of the untold threat in the criminal kingpin's voice. Effectively sealing his fate by doing so. Maybe he did know, and carried on anyway.

"I could have accepted, maybe even understood it if you were just a common criminal, like so many others. But you've become something else."

Emma was quiet in her seat, unblinkingly listening to the conversation like it was a very fascinating story that she had no part in. She hadn't known which cutlery to use earlier and Oswald had (because he really couldn't take it) discreetly held her hands over the right instruments as the dinner commenced.

"You've become a bully Oswald – someone who manipulates others without heed or qualm."

The word triggered a lot of memories. Their time at school together – Winston acting as Oswald's savior again and again from the other boys who hit him with fists, rocks and unkind words all day long. Oswald could agree with a lot of titles he had been given in the past – murderer, criminal, even that bane of a nickname that had stuck to him ever since his rise to power.

But bully was somehow not one of them.

He clenched his jaw in silence and regarded his former protector for a moment.

"So what do you plan to do?" he asked and Carlton pushed away from the table with his chair, regarding Oswald very plainly.

"Well, you're not the only one with informants in this town – and the things I know will be quite enough for the mayor to finally see some sense."

There was a short beat of silence in which any reaction might have been possible – an outburst of some kind lingered in the air – but it did not come. Instead Oswald smiled and laughed, looking genuinely thrilled – amused even.

"Oh, if that's all – I do wish you the best of luck. I really do – let's have a toast." he said, then raised his glass of wine in Carter's direction.

Carter looked a little lost for a moment, not expecting such a reaction. But he did lift his own glass, and emptied the remainder of it.

Oswald lowered his and watched – waited. And sure enough, after a moment or two Carter started to blink rapidly – as if his vision was becoming faulty or blurry.

"What's the matter old chap – too strong for you? It is a good vintage, perhaps a bit too much so."

Carter's eyes widened and he looked down at the empty glass, realizing what had happened. He tried to get up from his seat and walk away, but he only managed to stand upright, and when he tried to take a step away from the table, he made a coughing, spitting noise and fell to the floor in a heavy heap of limbs.

It was completely silent in the room as Emma ducked under the table to look at Carter, who was frothing at the mouth, eyes rolling back into his head.

"Oh, he's still moving." she said lightly, with an odd note of wonder in her voice. Oswald wiped his hands on his napkin, answering her without looking.

"Just corpse jitters, nothing more. "

* * *

The following day, Carter was frontpage news.

Apparently, he had been found together dead with his female secretary in a seedy motel room –all evidence pointing to a murder-suicide. There had been telephone records, text messages and enough tactile evidence on the scene to condemn him, even in death.

When Oswald returned home that very day, he knew right away that Emma had gone. There were many traces left of her – the bed was still unmade in her room, crumbs on the sheets and even a trickle of blood on them too.

The dress she had worn to dinner the other night, however, had been carefully put back into the empty closet on a hanger.

He thought he would be relieved to know that she had left. But instead, he only felt an odd pang of emptiness -dismissing it, repressing it immediately as just a side-effect of himself. He had the same feeling in regards to many things, after all.


	7. Chapter 7

Three weeks passed by and he barely thought of her. He really didn't.

There was too much work to do, too many plans to consider to have room left over for much else anyway.

* * *

It was another regular night at the iceberg lounge when he ran into her again.

He was just mingling with a few familiar (and unfamiliar) faces when he spotted her across the bar, talking to someone very tall with dark hair and a somewhat sleazy, debonair smile– Nico Vanetta, he deduced. Not a man on his payroll, but a man in the same line of business as most customers that came to the lounge. She had curled and coiffed her almost-white hair so that it looked like something out of the 1920s.

They were laughing together, him leaning over her slightly – more like looming really.

She was wearing another dress tonight – one that dipped low in the back. It revealed a fascinating array of scars that caught his eye – he recognized what kind they were.

* * *

"Just out of curiosity, what was it that Tommy said?"

She had walked away from Nico and had tried to make her way to the restrooms through the crowd when he appeared at her side from out of nowhere. She blinked out of the happy haze she had been in, locking eyes with his piercing cold stare.

"Hmm?" she asked guilelessly, still walking – and he followed after her, still asking. Worse than a revolver at her temple.

"You don't remember beating him to a bloody mess? I do."

She lowered her eyes to the floor and her brow furrowed – she hated remembering things like that. Anything that brought on all that pain again. _Let's be happy! Let's forget!_ She attempted to smile at him, distract him.

"Let's not say anything more about it. " she said airily, but he saw right through the act. They left the throng of people gathered around the dance floor, around the dining tables.

"I'd really like to know." he said and she stopped, shook her shoulders as if trying to get rid of a feeling that was settling over her. They were standing in the darkened lobby of the club now, next to the coatrooms where nobody was. She hugged herself and stood alone, facing away from him.

"Why?" she asked, still hoping that he would stop. It was too quiet in this room, and the music was gone.

"Because I said so."

She gave him a look that was a mix between raw horror and a strange sort of awe.

"It was just an awful thing, that's all. I'm sure he won't mention it again." she said, patting him on the arm in a detached way before she rejoined the crowd of people once again.

* * *

Tommy Bones apartment was a small, sorry thing in the very innards of the Narrows. It was a sort of place one only slept and ate in, and nothing more. Cockroaches skidded across the floor whenever the lights were out, living on the contents of discarded pizza boxes and one pathetic leaf of cabbage in the fridge.

On this particular night, he stumbled through the door in the middle of the night – more than a little drunk after a few hours at the nearest pub and in the arms of a brothel with no name.

He kicked off his shoes clumsily in the dark and, with the familiarity of knowing, he headed right for the bedroom when a wide-awake voice spoke up in the darkness.

"Hi honey, you're home."

He almost stumbled over the coffee table in his tiny living room as the voice spoke.

"Wha-who's there?"

"Relax, it's just me."

And it was _just_ him – the penguin rarely did housecalls these days unchaperoned, but he felt this occasion needed a personal touch. It was not so dark that Tommy didn't manage to catch his familiar profile or the glitter of a smile. He was sitting comfortably on the ratty old couch, watching and waiting.

"Oh – boss! What, uhm – what brings you here?" _In the middle of the night, waiting for me._

The penguin threw out his hands in the air in a welcome gesture that was all sinister intent.

"See, I know it's late and I do apologize for barging in like this. But there's just something that I can't figure out – something I know you will be able to help me with."

"What's that?"

The penguin got a cold, bland look on his face that gave Tommy the shivers. That look never boded well for anyone – he hadn't seen it for a long time. He also saw now that, there was a silver glint of something in his hand – a scalpel.

"Did you threaten her?"

"Threaten who boss?"

"Emma. What did you say to her to make her so mad? "

Tommy stumbled a little on his feet, trying to remember where he'd put his gun.

"Nothing – I mean, nothing special."

There was a husky laugh in the dark.

"You do know how bad of an idea it is to lie to me right? Surely, you must know the outcome."

"Look – it was nothing personal. It's just – we all know who she used to belong to. He messed her up good, that's for sure. "

The penguin lost his voice for a moment, a vulnerable tone creeping in.

"What do you mean?"

"You didn't know? I mean, everyone saw her with Jerome on tv – made them out to be this bonny and clyde type thing – what a laugh that was. We all knew what he really did with her ...I just thought it was funny seeing her without her master, that's all."

The penguin blinked at that – looking away into the dark, considering. A blue sort of hue rested over his person that was visible to the naked eye – telling anyone looking that he was half-in and half-out from a state of madness that nobody could hope to understand. He slipped into it every so often, it was what propelled him to kiss the forehead of a lackey just before slitting his throat with a pocket knife. It was what his employees feared him for – that state they could not reach, that could mean anything between death and paranoia. It was impossible to know what he was thinking at times like these.

Tommy saw it now, saw it and felt that inevitably, this job would kill him.

Penguin still toyed with the scalpel in one hand, twisting it, making it twinkle in the dark.

"So, we good boss? " he asked, and a terrible, long moment passed before the penguin got up from the couch and put away the knife, ducking his head before leaving.

"Sure, absolutely. Sorry again for calling on you so late."


End file.
